University of Virginia Library

THE LAST OF HERCULES.

THE purple splendours of the dying sun
Flamed on the sombre emerald of the hills
And all the streams ran crimson to the sea,
As with the ebbing life-blood of the day.
Snow-white the village nestled to the flanks
Of one tall cliff, that sloped its slow ascent
Toward the fading glories of the sky,
As if to catch the mantle of the light
Upon its crownéd head; and from the walls
The curving beach swept with its silver shells
To meet the long slow ripples of the sea;
Whilst, far and wide, the golden sky was cleft
With mountains and a purple trail of woods
Linked all the valleys with the gradual crests.
It was the vineyard-harvest. All the vines
Showed brown and naked and the clustered grapes
Lay on the osiers in great jewelled heaps,
Until the press should rob them, with the morn,
Of all the sunshine hoarded in their globes.
The folk were tired of festival and dance
And lay upon the herbage, weary-wise,
Watching the hazy glitter in the air,
As in the west the Delian's golden car
Paused in the purple portals of the night.
Here children clustered round a greybeard sire,
Who droned out legends of the bygone days,
With many a gloss born of the newer time.
There youths and maidens gathered in a ring
And wove rose-garlands for the morrow's wine
And sang in alternation to the harp.
One measured out a hearty rustic song,
A hymn to Bacchus of the country-side,
And all the folk caught fire and clapped their hands
And “Iö Bacche!” shouted, till the hills
And woodlands flung them back the jovial clang.
And then another took the harp and sang
A wise sad song of Love and Death and Fate
And of the linking harmonies of life;
And as he sang, his hand compelled the strings
To silver-sweet rebellions, that did wait,
With grave majestic rhythm, on the slow
Long-cadenced phrases of the stately song.
The lofty music wound about their hearts,
And as its sweetness lengthened on the air
And with a wailing cadence passed away,
A charm of sadness fell upon them all
And there was silence for a little space.
Then one, “Enough of songs. Let Lychnis tell
The story of her meeting in the wood
Two Springs agone;” and pointed to a girl,
Slight with the drooping grace of some fair weed,
Who sat a little from the rest apart
And with a dreamy languour in her eyes,
Plucked idly at the petals of a rose.
And she, half-startled at her conscious thought,
Blushed shrinkingly, as loath to open out
Some delicate flower-secret of her soul
And soil its sweetness with the general gaze;
Then, with a shy sweet laugh at her own fears,
Shook off her shame and told the tale they asked.
“It was in that blithe birth-time of the months,
When Dionusos bursts the winter's chains
And all things feel renewal of their youth
And flower toward the aspect of the sun,
I, tending goats upon the woodward slope,
Was ware of one stray kidling, that afar
Had wandered from the flock and gleefully,
Rejoicing in its foolish liberty,
Did frisk and gambol on the forest's edge.
The little thing was somewhat dear to me,
Being as white as wind-flowers newly-blown
And tame beyond the usance of its kind;
And so it pleased me not that it should stray
So far toward the tangles of the wood,
Where haply it might wander on and on,
Until it lost the instinct of return.
I mounted leisurely the slow ascent,
Thinking the kid would know me by my voice
And come for calling; but, as I drew near,
It gazed on me an instant with large eyes
And bent its head a moment to the brook,
That gurgled 'twixt the intertrellised trunks,
Then started off into the deepest wood,
Making the hidden echoes of the place
Ring with the silver tinkle of its bell.
I followed in the pathway of the sound,
Half fearful of the unknown things that lay
Within that solemn shadow of the trees;—
Not that I looked to light on aught more strange
Than some stray Dryad peeping from the brake
Or haply Fauns a-gambol in the fern,
That should flee from me, fearful as myself;—
But some vague awe had ever held me back
From searching out the secrets of the grove.
The forest wore its raiment of the Spring,
And all around was very fair to see
And filled me with a wondering delight.
In all the cool green glades, lush hyacinths
Did robe the earth in purple, golden-starred,—
Fit carpet for the wood-nymphs' flying feet,—
And violets scented all the woodland air.
The crocus raised its flower-flames of the Spring
And all the hollow places of the wood
And all the humid borders of the stream
Were marged and trellised with the liberal blooms.
The sweet and reverend silence of the place,
Unbroken save by some stray throstle's chirp
And babble of the brooklet o'er the stones,
Soon soothed my awe to gladness; and the fair
And exquisite new life that lay around,
The murmurous music in the blissful air
And subtle sweetness of the blended scents
O'erflowed my heart with some new ecstasy.
And as I went, still following the bell,
That led me to the deepest of the wood,
I saw, across a little cloistered glade,
That opened out abruptly in my front,
A sudden snow of lilies on a bank.
The breeze was heavy with their luscious breath;
And as it grew on me, my sense was seized
With such delight and with so sharp a wish
To gather some great cluster of the bells
And crush full fragrance from them with my lips,
That, making tow'rd them with unthinking haste,
I caught my sandal in a wild vine's trail,
That ran from bole to bole across the glade,
And fell face downward on the lily-bed.
The sudden shock forced from my parted lips
A cry of sheer amazement, as I tripped
And lay among the flowers all pantingly.
I plucked one handful of the tender bells,
That, crushed and drooping, all the sweetlier smelt,
And rose,— half-scared, half-laughing at my fears,—
To go. But, as I stood upon my feet,
I saw, outpeering from the neighbouring brake,
A loathly hideous visage, horned and grim,
That fastened on my face with hungry eyes,
Lurid and red and glaring with desire,
And two hooked hands that held the creepers back.
I stood a moment, rooted to the earth
With horror,— as a fowler in the marsh
That lights upon a sudden baleful snake
And cannot for awhile compel his feet
Backward or forward, till the evil beast
Creeps nearer and uncoils itself to strike;—
And then the thing set up a gibbering cry
And leapt, to seize me, out into the glade.
Half-beast, half-man, with gaunt and shaggy shanks,
Goat-hoofs and flanks a-bristle with red hair,—
It was a Satyr, one of those foul pests
That harbour in the inmost heart of green
And poison all the pleasance of the wood.
The imminence of terror lent me wings,
And turning back, I fled across the glade
To where the path sloped homeward. In the break
Another Satyr met me in mid-race,
E'en loathlier than the first one; and I, crazed
With terror, cowered backward on the sward
And hid my face between my trembling hands,
Expecting momently to feel the clutch
Of their foul claws upon my neck and loath
To look upon the face of such a death.
A second passed,— a life of years to me
For agony,— and still no horny hand
Did violate the tangles of my hair
Nor tear the crimson chlamys from my neck;
And listening,— hope half-awake again
For the delay,— to hear how this should be,
A tread that was no Satyr's smote my ears
And human footsteps rustled through the leaves;
Then, looking up, I saw the loathly pair
Had taken refuge at the glade's far end
And mopped and mowed with disappointed rage.
But by my side there stood a fair-haired man,
Goodly with noble limbs and locks of gold
And tall beyond the use of mortal kind.
Can I forget his beauty? Like a god
For noble stature,— ay, a god indeed
For eyes unfathomed as a mountain lake
And the fair stainless valour of his port.
Ah, how the weak words fail me to present
The glory of his majesty! Full oft,
When in the purple night I look upon
The splendour of the sadness of the stars
And weary waning silver of the moon,
There rises up before my longing eyes
The wise heroic sorrow of his face,
That fills the flower-cells of my memory.
He leant upon a club, and on his breast,
Mighty with breadth and sinews mountainous,
A tawny lion's skin, that lay across
His ample shoulders, met and was confined
Within two golden ouches, subtly wrought
Into the semblance of a lion's claws.
And as I looked on him with hare-like eyes,
Half-glad, half-doubtful with astonishment,
He laid his hand upon my upturned head
And “Fear not,” said he; “thou art safe with me;
See, yonder have they fled.” But, as he spoke,
There came a crashing and a rending noise,
As of a wild boar tearing through the brake,
Before the eager dogs; and suddenly
The glade was all alive with hornéd beasts,
That made toward us slowly from all sides,
As if to hem us in from all retreat.
Then that fair hero raised me from the grass
And set me up against a wide-girthed tree,
One hand about my waist, the other leant
Upon the knotted handle of his club,
And waited, with his back against the stem.
The foremost Satyr, seeing him so still,
Waxed bold and bolder for his comrades' host,
And with a sudden rush, thought to make shift
To clutch me by the hair; but, as he passed
Him of the lion's hide, the hero's hand
Slid swiftly to the hilt and drawing out
The broad brown blade, that glittered in the sun,
Struck with the sharp steel straight at the bent neck.
The keen death shore through all the knotted flesh
And bit into the columns of the throat
And the slit veins let out the felon life.
Then all that rabble rout, dismayed to see
Their fellow's fate, fled howling from the place
And disappeared among the thick-set trees.
But he, my saviour, turned his face to me
And said, “Fair maid, now is thy fear forgone;
Yet, haply, since the hollows of the wood
May hold some terror still for thee within
Their shadow, it behoveth me to bring
Thee on thy homeward way, toward the sea,
To where the wild wood ceases from the crests.”
And I to him, “O hero! must the Fates
Sever so hastily our crossing lives?
May I not look on my deliverer
One little hour? Wilt thou not stay awhile
And look upon the faces of my kin
And mingle but a day's time with our life?
Wilt thou disdain to hear our foolish thanks
And taste the last year's life-blood of our vines?”
He looked upon me, with a rare sweet smile
Rounding the perfect glory of his mouth,
Awhile in silence; then, “It may not be,
Sweet one,” he said; “I have long work to do
And may not tarry in the flowered ways: —
Work, for the waste earth wails to me for help;
Work, for men's hearts do fail them for despair
And all the air is faint with bitter wrong.”
The valleys echoed with his hollow words,
As the flute-sweetness mounted, gathering,
Into the mellow thunder of the end;
And from the rock-caves rang the answered speech
And died in wailing murmurs, “Bitter wrong!”
And failed with failing sweetness on the air.
The strange wild music filled my soul with thought,
Awhile too vague for speech to open out
The dim mysterious petals of its bud:
And then I raised my eyes and looked at his
And saw in the clear depths a godlike pain,
A glory of deep sadness, grave and sweet,
And knew some god had fallen on my days
And smitten their unthinking careless calm
Of twilight with the sun-ray of his gaze
And shown me all the fastnesses of life.
Ay, a god surely, and belike, yet more,
A man more god-like, nobler than a god;
For such, they say, do sometimes walk the earth,
Bridging the yawning chasms of the world,
That careless freedom of Olympian rule
And loveless rigour of the ruthless gods
Have opened, with the silver of their deeds,
Ay, and the splendid fulness of their lives.
He stood before me all unconsciously,
Holding the stretching landscape in his gaze,
With deep mild eyes that drank the future in
From where the crystals of the upper air
Waved on the cloudless sapphires of the sky.
And as I looked on him, my heart was sad
And weary for the thought of his great task
And the near parting from him: then, at last,
“O conqueror of all the wrongs to be!
O saviour of the piteous of the earth!
O hero,” cried I; “if the speech of men
And their poor words, that have so scant a power
To shape their yearning, may enframe thy name
And give its lofty sweetness to our ears,
I pray thee let me hear it, that I may
Embower it in the flower-nest of my heart
And sweeten all my memories with its scent.”
So I to him; and “I am he that bears
The burden of the travail of the world
And sadly compass the deliverance
Of mortal men,” he said, “from weary weight
And pain of toil against the harsh decrees
Relentless of immortals and the stress
Of ruthless Nature. I am Hercules,
That work the world-wrongs wearily to right
And have no hope of rest nor any joy
Until the swift Fates snatch me to the stars.”
Thus said he, as we went along the wood,
For now the way drew homeward and the trees
Thinned to the open summit of the hill.
And as he spake, he, striding on before,
Did clear the rocks and brambles from my way
And held me back the stubborn undergrowth,
That I might pass with robe inviolate.
And when too soon we came to where the trees
Showed sparsely 'gainst the blue nor hid from view
The village roofs that sparkled in the sun,
He stooped and kissed me twice between the eyes
And turned into the tangles of the wood.
So strode he tow'rd the sunset and I saw,
Deep-written in the furrows of his brow,
That men should look upon his face no more.
And as I went a-musing down the slope
Into the homeward path between the vines,
The dim unspoken echoes of his thought
Stirred in the secret places of my heart
And whispered to me of the soul of things,
The general doom of pleasure twinned with pain;
How sorrow pairs with gladness, joy with grief
And sweetest things have root in bitterest soil.
Grape-clusters burn to purple in the sun,
Forcing scant nurture from the painful earth,
Grow ripe to fall before the harvest-knife
And bleed beneath the unrelenting press,
To gladden men with essence of their pain.
The olive, dying, yields its golden oil
And violets, for the binding of our brows,
Die in the purple meshes of our hair
And in a waning sweetness breathe out life.
That man may build a house, the Dryad dies
And many a kid must bleed that we may eat.
Nor is it these alone whose gladness fails,
That men may taste the sweetness of the day.
Man lives by man and from his fellow's dole
Gathers too oft the blossoms of his joy.
How many slaves toil hardly in the sun
And eat their bread in bitterness and woe,
That he who rules may lie on rose-strewn lawns
And dream beside the babble of the brook
And crush a curious sweetness from the hours.
How many feel the cold steel at their hearts
Or wear the garb of dolour and despair,
To weave one laurel for the victor's brow!
This world of ours is edified with pain
And built on bitter pedestals of wrong.
E'en he who heals the fever of the time
And smites the cankers at the heart of life
Is not exempted from the general doom;
For, while he rights the world, he wrongs himself,
Seeing he has no gladness in his life.
What others do for gladness, he for grief;
And healing pain, he clasps it for himself.
Sad cypress is the cincture of his brow
And sorrow is the mistress of his soul.